


none

by Starryeyesjeon



Category: Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas - Ursula K. Le Guin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-09 23:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19895959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starryeyesjeon/pseuds/Starryeyesjeon
Summary: “The more I try to get to you, the more we crash apart.”After a myriad of mistakes committed in his leather jacket with a cigarette between his teeth, Jungkook finds himself exiled to his aunt's house in a quiet, faraway town for the summer. Nothing much goes on at the neighbourhood; or so he thinks, until he meets a boy with sunset-coloured hair named Kim Taehyung.





	1. Chemical Kids

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is written by ongstzone !

Within his lifetime—that is, seventeen years and counting—Jungkook has discovered that he genuinely enjoys two things: pouring out his weekly school allowance on several rounds of Virtua Cop 2 at Pixel Park, an arcade five blocks south of his school, and going on late-night rendezvous every Friday night with his infamous gang of friends to smoke a pack of cigarettes inside his pickup truck. These things become all the more enjoyable when the group collectively decides to avoid school altogether and head straight for the arcade in the middle of the day, pockets loaded with spare change, illegally purchased Mary Jane, pieces of paper, and a lighter stolen from Jungkook’s father’s study, which, before its abduction, had been previously tucked behind several books lined along a wooden shelf.

They had the perfect agenda for the last day of school; blowing off the final exams of the school year in favour of the latest video games while blazing near the arcade’s back room. All had been going well, with him and his gang of self-proclaimed “rebels” laughing and indulging in the options the snack bar had to offer; weed always tasted better with a little bit of sugar, after all. But after one of them—Hoseok, that fucking idiot—had been caught by one of the employees rolling up a joint for himself, they had to make a run for it.

“Head to the alley! The one down the road! Take a right!” Namjoon directs them towards their designated hideout as Jungkook trails past the rest of the group, lactic acid pounding in his muscles as he dashes through the empty streets.

_Jung fucking Hoseok_. Jungkook spits on the sidewalk. His footing falters, legs wobbling with each step that brings him closer to the alley. He can hear his pulse hammering against his temples, vision spinning around him; he can hear his friends calling out to him from behind, but the drugs have stolen his ability to comprehend their words clearly without having to repeat them to himself over and over.

The rest of the group follows through, with Hoseok, Namjoon, and Seokjin coming into view, chests heaving from the chase. Jungkook props himself up on a wall with his two hands, shoulders moving up, down, up, down, with every intake of air. He shrugs out of his denim jacket and throws it to the ground, sweat trickling down his entire body. His black shirt sticks to his body, the lines of his chest and abdomen visible through the fabric.

The nausea rocks through Jungkook’s body, and his earlier meal, comprised of fries, a burger, and a can of Coca-Cola, exit his system in the form of bile rising from his throat and out onto the ground. He coughs and nearly chokes on the fluid, if not for Seokjin’s helping hand, slapping him on the back and mumbling let it out, _it’s okay, we got you, you’ll be fine._

Somehow, despite the blurry vision and wrecked sense of hearing, he manages to make out the scene: across the wall he’s leaning against, Namjoon’s hunched over, hands planted on his knees while he coughs, making guttural noises in the process. Hoseok’s on the ground, knees digging into the dust and litter, while his palms are planted flat on the gravel. Droplets of sweat drip from his hairline down to his jaw; his gaze is distant even though it is affixed on the trash shoot further down the alley. Seokjin is barely able to maintain his composure, standing next to Jungkook. Seokjin’s hand drops from Jungkook’s back to break his fall; he eventually joins Hoseok on the ground, puking all over the place due to the influence of Jungkook’s earlier episode. Jungkook tuts, wiping away the saliva dripping from the corner of his lips with the back of his hand.

“This is all your _fucking_ fault,” he shoves a finger in Hoseok’s direction. “If you hadn’t been so fucking loud at Pixel Park we wouldn’t have gotten caught!”

Hoseok is quick to rise to his feet. “ _Me?_ We shouldn’t have been there in the first place! We’re supposed to be at school right now!”

“Then why the _fuck_ did you agree to come with us?” Jungkook’s head throbs at the volume of his own voice. He raises his arm and locks his fingers into a fist before driving it into Hoseok’s jaw. “You goddamn scrub. Fucking weak.”

Hoseok stumbles backward, falling on his tailbone and eventually, his back. Seokjin scrambles to his side to check up on him. Namjoon pushes Jungkook backwards and pins him to the wall, hands locked around the latter’s shoulders in a vice grip, knuckles turning paper white from the tension.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon warns, voice low and dark, still groggy from the marijuana he had smoked. “C’mon, it’s not his fault. That cashier was looking around and—”

Jungkook shoves Namjoon away with such force that Namjoon loses his sense of coordination and trips over his own two feet, stumbling towards the ground. Jungkook rubs his shoulders to ease the soreness Namjoon’s grip left and charges toward Hoseok, cracking his knuckles. His head’s still spinning by the time Hoseok’s at his feet. Seokjin stands and shields Hoseok.

“Jungkook, this is going too far.” Seokjin spreads his arms out to prevent Jungkook from coming any closer towards the injured Hoseok. “He’s bruised already. You might have broken his jaw. Let him go before the cops make it—”

Jungkook propels his fist into Seokjin’s gut. The latter groans and coughs up blood, maroon staining his lower lip and flowing down his chin. While Seokjin’s bent over, clutching onto his stomach, Jungkook propels his knee forward until it slams into Seokjin’s temple.

“I get it,” Jungkook hisses, reminding himself not to make it obvious that the searing pain roasting his brain has spread throughout the rest of his body. “You’re all trying to gang up on me, aren’t you? Gonna turn me in? You think you can get rid of me like that?”

“Blood, listen,” Hoseok manages to gasp. He has his arms outstretched forward as a sign of surrender, but the fear ingrained into his features and the tension in his fists give away his true intentions. “Blood, you gotta chill.”

“‘Blood’ my _ass_ ,” Jungkook scoffs. He lands another punch on Hoseok; across his face this time. Jungkook draws his hand back and shakes off the ache, fingers throbbing from the impact. “Don’t call me ‘blood,’ you piece of—”

He is interrupted by the familiar wailing of sirens. He, along with the rest of his group, turn their heads toward the direction the sound is coming from. Out of the corner of his eyes, Jungkook detects the alternate flashing of blue and red lights; the sound of tires screeching against the road has reached his ears so many times it no longer bothers him.

“Shit,” Namjoon curses under his breath, dumping the unused marijuana into the trash, along with an unopened pack of Marlboro.

“It’s no use; your eyes give it away,” Seokjin murmurs calmly, unable to take his eyes off the road, where a police car rolls into view. A chorus of low grunts emits from the group as two policemen move toward them, the handcuffs and threats and _not these kids again_ adding up to the sensation of their drug-induced highs with the mental spell of déjà vu.

“These kids are just throwing their lives away,” one of the officers grumbles, pushing Jungkook into the back of the car along with the rest of his group.

 _Throwing their lives away._ As if Jungkook hasn’t heard that a million times before.

* * *

The ride from the police station back to his house in his father’s dull grey sedan is a part of Jungkook’s weekly routine; he likes to think of it as a sort of father & son bonding activity. Though unusual, it still counts for something, with the show tunes playing through the radio and his dad harmonizing with the melody with the same sermons recited from the previous week. It ends with a stern look of disappointment, the confiscation of Jungkook’s keys to his pickup truck, and taking away his wallet until his mother would give in and sneak ten bucks into his room on a Thursday afternoon.

Tonight, though, there is something else; something different in the way his father presses his lips into a thin line, the muted anger etching wrinkles into his forehead, the tightening of the skin around his jawline, the palest green outline of the veins in his neck. There is restrained force in the way his hand closes around Jungkook’s elbow; and when he shoves Jungkook into the passenger seat and closes the door with a powerful thud, Jungkook catches himself shivering.

Tonight, the thick air is pregnant with tamed rage; the fleeting burn of his father’s exhales haunting his senses every ten minutes as the neighbouring houses in their suburb come into view. Throughout the entire ride, Jungkook bounces on the balls of his feet, clammy hands running along his ripped, bloodstained jeans in an attempt to calm himself down. Everything feels out of character; his father, himself, and even the unsettling smile on his mother’s lips when he and his father make their way into the living room.

It happens in series of sensations; knuckles meeting flesh, bone-crushing bone, back slamming to the floor. The room before Jungkook spins, and it takes him two long minutes to process the situation with a frazzled brain.

“Jeon Jungkook,” hisses his father; despite the ringing sound splitting Jungkook’s brain in two, he can so clearly make out the sparks of anger in the way his father spits his name at him. “Do you know how much you’ve tarnished our family name?”

Jungkook scoffs at this. _He doesn’t actually give a shit about me, does he? It’s always the name before the person._

His mother scrambles to Jungkook’s side to support him, caressing his face to assuage the impact of his father’s punch. For a moment, Jungkook’s eyes meet hers; he sees an apology writing itself in the form of a teardrop along the corner of her left eye. His open palm, still on the floor, catches the drop. _I’m sorry_.

“Your mother and I have done nothing but do everything we can for you,” his father bellows, shrugging out of his blazer and tossing it to the floor in distress. “Is this how you plan to repay us; with a bad reputation?”

Jungkook’s eyes find various things within the living room to focus on; the broken lampshade only aggravates the light radiating from the bulb. The couch has a few fresh stains from wine and coffee; five, he counts. The stack of magazines and notebooks on the coffee table is organized, edges aligned as always. Four pictures are framed on the wall; one of him as a child, playing in the garden; the second shows his parents, the black and white ink failing to suppress the colours of their love on their wedding day; the third is an image of his grandparents way back when; and the last shows him, at around four or five years old, sitting in his mother’s lap, while a young girl—she was seven—sits beside his mother, holding his small fist in her two hands.

He’s developed this skill over time; muting the sounds buzzing all around him, letting the words pass over his head without much thought while losing himself to the finest details of his environment. It’s a good distraction; a good way to fasten another layer of numbness onto himself so the words won’t hit him. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling the sting of his father’s hand as it slaps him across the face; his mother is wailing from behind, her pleas falling on deaf ears.

“Look me in the eye, you piece of garbage,” his father crouches down to grab him by his collar with one hand. The other forcefully turns Jungkook’s face towards his. “I am not going to let you ruin this family any further than you and your whore of a sister already have—”

Jungkook’s too slow; somehow, the words have managed to crawl under his skin and ignite a spark within him.

“Don’t talk about her like she’s not your daughter.” Jungkook pushes his father away from him and rises to his feet, fists clenched at his sides he can feel the hue flush out of his knuckles. “She isn’t here, but she’s still your daughter. And even when you kick me out of this goddamn house—”

“Watch your mouth, young man—”

“I’ll fucking talk however I want!” Jungkook catches his mother flinch from the corner of his eye and partially regrets raising his voice just a few decibels. If he’s going to stand his ground with his father, however, he’ll need to present himself as an equal. “Even when the both of us are gone from your perfect little suburban lives, we’re still going to be your children. But you don’t really give a flying fuck about that, don’t you?”

“Jungkook!” his mother exclaims, voice shrill; there are still heavy traces of her sobs ingrained into the syllables of his name. He hears her call for him, and it’s more than just his name; it’s an appeal to surrender. An invitation to lower himself to his knees and beg for forgiveness. A suggestion to raise the white flag before the war even starts.

“All you care about,” Jungkook continues, pointing his finger accusingly at his father, “is your goddamn reputation at work. You don’t want them to hear about me failing all my classes when you’re the mighty attorney they all adore so fucking _much_. You don’t want them to know that you, a lawyer, for God’s sake, didn’t even care to try and sue his daughter’s abuser and bring the case to court.”

The veins in his father’s neck and head begin to bulge, the ridges visible on his skin. His jaw is taut with a withheld reprimand. The wrinkles in his forehead increase at each word that escapes Jungkook’s mouth; at least he still has the decency to listen.

Jungkook finds the audacity within himself to take two steps closer to his father. “You don’t want them to know how you let your own flesh and blood live with the same man who _abused_ her. You don’t want them to know that you’re a brilliant lawyer but a shitty father.”

 _Slap_. That’s the third one this evening.

“You and your gang of troublemakers are throwing away your lives and _my_ money, that _I_ worked hard to give _you_ ,” his father roars, hand hovering near Jungkook’s face. “I’m not going to let you get away with that.”

“What are you going to do, then?” Jungkook challenges. Although his tone is firm and provocative, it does not reflect the fear that sits silently at the farthest crevices of his mind. “Kick me out of this house? Send me to live with Junghee? Let me starve out in the streets?”

“I’m more reasonable than that,” his father says, voice hilariously softening. _Ridiculous_.

“Is that what you said when you sent Junghee away?” The fourth slap fails to come into contact with Jungkook’s face; his hand closes around his father’s wrist, fingers grasping onto the golden watch sitting on his father’s wrist bone. He twists his father’s hand away until the latter yelps in pain.

“Jungkook, let your father’s hand go,” his mother pleads from behind him, a tender hand placed on the small of his back. “Please. Kook, please.”

 _Kook_.

He loosens his grip on his father, and his father yanks away from his touch. Jungkook’s eyes steal another glance at the old photograph of him, his sister, and his mother; smiles so careless and oblivious to the future that awaited the then whole, happy family.

“You need an attitude adjustment, young man,” his father’s words echo throughout the four walls of their living room, maintaining an authoritative tone even though the trembling of his words are audible. “Your mother and I have done all that we can, but this is too much. This city’s intoxicating you.”

“So what are you gonna do to me, old man? Deport me back to Korea?”

“You’re really asking for it, eh?” His father raises his hand once more. His eyes land on Jungkook’s mother, who stands behind him. His father lowers his hand. “If it weren’t for your mother, that’s exactly what I’d do. But we… reached a compromise.”

At this, Jungkook raises his brows. “Which is…?”

“You’ll live with your aunt,” he states, rubbing his hands together while his brows furrow. “We’ve already arranged everything. You’re going to stay with her for as long as you need to.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “As long as I need to? What is this; your version of juvy?”

“This city is bad for you and you need to get away from it.” There is finality, conviction in his father’s gravelly voice.

Jungkook’s first instinct is to object; the second is to tell his father to fuck off and proceed to take his pickup truck out for a drive all night; the third is to gather all his belongings and escape the prison that his father has built him.

“It’s just for the summer, Jungkook,” his mother reasons, her hand closing around her son’s. “Give it a chance. It’s very peaceful there; very quiet. Not a lot of distractions.”

What his mother equates to distractions are synonymous to his hobbies. He’s on the brink of rejecting the ludicrous idea until he turns to face her; eyes glistening with her tears, wrinkles deepening, circles around her eyes two shades darker than he remembers. All of these tug at his conscience, and that’s when he chooses to bite back any further retort.

“Just for the summer,” Jungkook repeats to himself, moving his hand away from his mother’s and making his way for the staircase. “I’ll think about it.”

“We already arranged everything,” his father reiterates, annoyance evident in the way he enunciates the last word. “This isn’t a request, Jungkook. This is a command. This is for your own good, and ours.”

“I’m touched,” Jungkook mocks, “but I think I know what’s good for me.”

“No, you don’t,” his father argues, on the verge of charging towards his son once more. “You’re flying there this weekend and you won’t be going anywhere else until then. Understood?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes wordlessly ascends up the stairs and makes his way to his bedroom. Upon entering his quarters, he collapses onto the wide bed, immersing himself in the fragrance of laundry detergent and cigarettes embedded into his bedsheets.

He ponders what his father had told him; about how the city had turned Jungkook into a motorcycle-riding, cigarette-smoking, law-breaking monster instead of the perfect law school scholar his father had hoped for him to be. He chuckles hollowly at the thought. It’s not exactly the city that’s turned him into who he is now; maybe it’s the sum of all the worst aspects of his life. Maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t had his sister by his side for almost two years. Maybe it’s because the home he grew up in, full of compassion and laughter and understanding, had crumbled into a house built on threats and founded upon financial stability; paired with the frustration of bringing back the old days, when the house was built for four and actually housed four. And he had so desperately wanted it back that he had gone off searching for that home in other things.

The city isn’t bad for Jungkook; but it was bad for his family, and that was enough to ruin him.


	2. Planes and Pearl Jam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, mostly exposition. more stuff to come in the next chapter though, so look forward  
> to it!

Jungkook vaguely remembers the first time he had been to the airport. He was seven then, with an arm tightly wrapped around his stuffed bear and a cherry-flavoured lollipop in his mouth. His mother held his hand in hers while Junghee, nine-years-old, trailed behind them in a peach dress, her hair in pigtails. They had eagerly welcomed their father home from his quick trip to Korea; if he closes his eyes and tries his hardest, he can still remember the feeling of his father’s arms wrapping around his small frame, lifting him into the air, a smile warming his father’s normally cold features.

Jungkook has trouble remembering the second time around. All he remembers was that at twelve years old—Junghee then at fourteen—his father’s sharp, hardened features only tensed further upon laying his eyes on his waiting family. Jungkook didn’t know then why Junghee couldn’t maintain their father’s gaze.

His third visit to the airport is the most vivid; it still stings like a fresh wound cut open in his mind, memories bleeding from the open flesh.

As he stands at the entrance of the airport, he recalls every aspect of his memory from that day, and suddenly, he’s fourteen again. Everything comes back to him in waves; the warmth of Junghee’s embrace, the stains her tears left on his shirt, her whispers and pleas to _take care of Mom, okay? Be a good boy, Kook. Be a good boy._

He remembers their father refusing to be anywhere near her. He remembers the filters of agony resonating in his mother’s screams as his sister took her bags with her and turned her back on them, a tall, dark-haired boy next to her, carrying his own luggage with him. He remembers the bump in her belly, the faded bruises on her arms and legs. And then nothing much after that; a quiet ride home. No lunch, nor dinner; he hadn’t bothered to touch his food at all that day.

It’s been many years, yet it still hurts all the same; if not, even worse.

His mother’s hollering brings him back from the ocean of his memories to the shore of the present. She’s triple-checking his bags, running her hands all over him, fixing his air. His father stands idly behind her, back turned to him.

“Be good to your aunt, alright?” his mother reminds, running her hand through his hair and smoothing it afterwards. “Give us a call when you get to her house. We love you, okay? We’ll see you in September.”

Jungkook forces himself to smile, albeit it comes out as a grimace. “Okay, Mom.”

His mother smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She turns to his father and nudges him. “Say goodbye to your son.”

Jungkook shakes his head.

“Come back as someone else or don’t come back at all.”

The smile drops from his mother’s face; it is replaced by a deep frown that emphasizes the wrinkles on her face.

Jungkook nods in silence, already having expected words of that short from his father.

His mother casts one last look over him from head to toe, as if she is trying to memorize every last detail about him. She wraps her arms around him, her head only reaching up to his chest. He closes one arm around her and returns the gesture, her scent—soft and delicate, roses and tea—filling his senses. He slowly drops his arm back to his side, while his mother lingers just a few seconds longer.

“Don’t listen to your father,” she manages to murmur lowly, “and come back by September.”

“I’ll try,” Jungkook replies, voice empty. Monotonous.

He takes his bags with him as he heads toward the terminal, not bothering to cast another glance over his shoulder; just to check on his family. A small voice in his head tells him they won’t bother to watch him leave.

Still, he turns his head slightly; cranes his neck in their direction. Maybe they’ll wait. Maybe they’ll wave.

He isn’t surprised, though, when he finds no one there.

* * *

Nausea pulses through his veins the minute he gets off of the plane, with the aftertaste—or lack, rather—of his meal from the airplane still sitting on his palate. His face scrunches at the sight of the airport, people waiting and shouting, cards with big, bold fonts being waved in the air.

He almost doesn’t see his aunt, but when he spots her, he understands why he almost missed her. Bluntly speaking, she’s a middle-aged version of all the girls back at school, with the same hair as Jennifer Aniston, albeit not as perfectly blow-dried and neatly layered as the breakout star’s is. She is clad in a flannel top folded up to her elbows; the shirt around two sizes bigger than her actual frame. Her eyes are alert and frantic, scanning the crowd of passengers entering the terminal.

“You’ve grown so much,” are the first few words that leave her mouth when he approaches her with a half-hearted smile and his luggage. The top of her head reaches the tip of his chin, and she has to throw her head back to look him in the eyes. “When I last saw you, I was much, much taller.”

There’s something about her smile that makes him shift uncomfortably in his place; maybe it’s the lipstick stain on her teeth that he hasn’t brought up out of courtesy, or the dull, faded shine of her lip gloss. There’s an edge in the way she speaks to him; an underlying fear, a quick pause between her words, carefully picking them out before putting them together. Jungkook concludes that she’d been on the phone with his father, and is absolutely certain that the call concerned him.

Despite the anger bubbling at the pit of his stomach at the thought of his father talking about him like  
  
some basket case, the pity he feels for his aunt who’s been tasked to look after him for three months overpowers his irritation at his father.

He smiles half-heartedly. “Well, I was seven when you last saw me. I’m seven _teen_ now.”

His aunt laughs, eyes wrinkling. “Time flies so fast. Let’s go home, yes?”

Jungkook literally has to bite his tongue to stop himself from replying sarcastically to every single thing his aunt says. Instead of saying another word, he motions for her to help him with his luggage.

They load his things into the back of a beat-down, second-hand Ford pickup truck. He does most of the work, with his aunt’s narrow, thin frame doing everything but help her load his bags onto the car. After putting the last of his luggage in place, she wipes the sweat dripping down her forehead and heaves, smiling proudly at the pile of bags.

“Great work, Kook,” she says, patting him on the shoulder before opening the door to the driver’s seat.

Jungkook grimaces at the nickname and follows suit, settling into his seat. The worn leather’s prolonged exposure to the afternoon sun has resulted in a searing pain on his bottom. He winces at the contact but remains still as his aunt revs up the engine and fidgets with the controls, searching for the perfect radio station.

“What songs do you like, Kook?” she asks him, distractedly placing her palm over the heater. “Have you heard of that new band... what’s it called... In Sink?”

“I think it’s spelled as N-S-Y-N-C,” he replies monotonously, watching people and cars pass them by through the tinted windows. “No, I’m not really into those boybands.”

“Ah, you’re a rock ‘n’ roll kid, aren’t you?” she grins at him, raising her brows curiously while eyeing his outfit. “I could tell.”

“Um.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Okay.”

“The flannel gives it away, kid,” she says, nudging his shoulder. She opens a compartment containing several cassette tapes, labels written in faded black Sharpie ink. “Take your pick.”

He blinks at her once before his hands hesitantly rummage through the collection of cassette tapes and compact disks. Familiar names such as Green Day and Alice in Chains catch his eyes; a corner of his mouth twitches upward when he finds a tape with the words _Pearl Jam_ neatly written on it. He picks it up and hands it to his aunt.

“Nice taste,” she comments.

“Thanks?” he says as his aunt inserts the tape into the player. He still isn’t certain about how he’s supposed to interact with his aunt; mostly because she’s been never been more than a name he’s heard in passing at dinner table conversations, and partly because he thinks she’s probably been told about how he’s a “troubled kid” or “problematic child.” If she _had_ been, she doesn’t show it; she just bops her head along to the first few beats of “Last Exit” as it blasts through the truck’s crappy speakers.

“I’m a huge fan of Pearl Jam,” she reasons, manoeuvring the vehicle smoothly down a bottleneck road. “I hope you don’t mind me singing along to their songs.”

Jungkook finds a smile within himself and casts one towards her. “No, I don’t mind.”

“By the way, call me Jane,” she tells him, momentarily turning her head towards him to flash him a grin. “The whole ‘Aunt Jane’ thing doesn’t really feel right.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jungkook mutters, distractedly rummaging through the rest of his aunt Jane’s cassette collection.

Maybe three months with her won’t be so bad.

* * *

The neighbourhood passes by Jungkook’s periphery like an opening shot for a Hollywood film; perfectly manicured grass lawns and yards blooming with flowers, specks of colour catching his attention they drive past house after house. Every house looks almost the same; the same colours, the same structure, the same size. It’s a bit eerie, but the pleasant smile on his Aunt Jane’s face assuages his worries for the meantime.

They arrive at Aunt Jane’s house a few seconds after the cassette tape runs out of songs to churn out. Her bungalow is nothing extraordinary; the walls are painted a light brown, the roof a typical shade of brick red. There is an attic and garage with the same palette of hues. The mailbox hangs open; it is rusted and dark green, the pole holding it upright slightly dented. The grass in her lawn has been mowed beforehand, no weeds nor stray plants growing anywhere.

They both enter the house after unloading his possessions from her car (with a lot of struggle on her part and minimal effort on Jungkook’s side). The interior is simple enough; the walls are a dull yellow shade. The living room is comprised of white couches and a wooden coffee table, with books and papers messily covering the surface. The kitchen is small, with a table positioned at the centre; Jungkook assumes it’s the dining table, since the house is a bit cramped and there isn’t much space left for an elaborate dining room.

“You’ll be sleeping in the guest room,” she says, pointing to the room they passed by just before entering the kitchen. “You can fix your things and wash up. Tell me if you need anything else, okay?”

Jungkook nods, not quite sure how to move about the new space he’s been placed in.

Jane folds her arms over each other. “I talked to your father over the phone before I picked you up.”

Jungkook laughs at this. “Of course.”

She doesn’t chuckle along with him. “I’m not sure what exactly it is that’s going on between you and your father, but it seems like you two are just the same.” A fond smile crosses her face. “He wasn’t exactly this rigid back then. He didn’t wear the same things you do now, but the way you act is pretty uncanny.”

Jungkook scowls. The last thing he wants to hear is that he’s going down the same path as his father.

“You might not completely trust me yet, but I want to help you,” she explains. Sincerity underlines every single word she utters; it sends a wave of goosebumps over Jungkook’s arm. “Don’t think of me as an aunt. Think of me as a friend to you. Alright?”

“I don’t have friends,” Jungkook argues, making his way to his new room.

His aunt laughs at this. “Not even those kids you smoke with?”

Jungkook freezes, feet rooted to the spot he stands on. “Did Dad tell you about that?”  
“It was a guess,” she says, her voice becoming more distant as she walks to the farther parts of the kitchen. “I guessed right, though, didn’t I?” She teases him effortlessly. “You two are exactly the same. I feel like I’m nineteen again.”

“Whatever,” Jungkook murmurs, defeated as he twists the knob to his room.

He knows she wasn’t being serious, but later that night after a hearty meal and a cup of green tea, he twists and turns under his blanket, an orchestra of thoughts playing out in his head in crescendos. Slumber is only a touch away, barely a millimetre from his fingertips, but it escapes his hold each time because of the loudness of his mind.

_You two are exactly the same._

He’s been called worse names and slurs, but nothing stings as bad as being likened to the cold-hearted man his father had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments & feedback are much appreciated. hmu @syugaflake on tumblr too, if you'd like! thanks for dropping


	3. Gradient Sunsets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler alert: taehyung's here. yay!! although i haven't had them formally talk yet, they  
> will soon. enjoy the chapter!

Jungkook likes to think he’s already settled into his place in the neighbourhood quite quickly.

He’s been living in his aunt’s humble abode for nearly five days, and he’s handled them all pretty well. His mornings are illustrated by waking up at six—on the dot—due to the sound of his aunt making breakfast while singing passionately to “All My Loving” playing on the radio. It’s a pleasant sight to walk into when he settles into the dining room and the plates in front of him contain mountains of toast and bacon, along with some eggs and several slices of a variety of fruits. His aunt lets him brew his own coffee and doesn’t hover at an awkward distance from him. In fact, contrary to his initial feelings towards her—or lack thereof—he’s grown to like her; bonding through common interests in music and pulp magazines and fixing old cameras. She doesn’t mind him sneaking in a smoke in the afternoons and sometimes pops open a bottle of beer for them to share while fixing up the attic or decluttering the garage.

“Don’t tell your father,” she reminds him between chips, toasts, and the latest episode of _Seinfeld._

When they aren’t conspiratorially drinking or working on several projects, he spends hours navigating the labyrinth of concrete streets on his old Vetta bike that he apparently left with his aunt all this time (“You called it a parting gift when you were seven. You were a very thoughtful young boy.”). Through his morning and afternoon cycling, he has covered perhaps half of the entire town, and if he tries hard enough to rack through his brain, he can sketch out the entire map of all his travels onto a piece of paper; all the turns and alleys, backstreets and intersections, dead ends and driveways.

However, it is also through his rendezvous that he has realized that there are a lot of things he doesn’t understand about this all-too-perfect, television-ready neighbourhood.

There are the seemingly infinite streets of the same standard suburban bungalows, with impeccably manicured lawns and friendly sixty-somethings who routinely bid him good morning whenever he takes his bicycle out for a run. There are the saturated sunsets that drip down the sky in golden tones and brilliant orange-red gradients. There is the overbearing feeling of isolation; from reality, as if it were floating in the middle of a space called nowhere, somewhere beyond the threshold of the city. Something about the _size_ of the neighbourhood; about how tight-knit the community is, about how the friendly fifty-three-year-old veteran two houses away is _Mr._ _Harrison_ and not _just_ the friendly fifty-three-year-old veteran; about how a doctor’s widow is _Mrs. Jackson_ and not _just_ the doctor’s widow. Every single person’s life in this town is somehow weaved into a much bigger web; a network of stories and gossip that strips them all of their right to privacy. He doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

Those things, though, he can try to pick apart; those things, he can try to understand and adapt to. But a particular boy he met at the park with sunset-coloured hair casting strange looks his way is beyond his capacity.

* * *

Jungkook takes notice of the boy on his first Saturday afternoon in the town; he had decided to take the bicycle out for a ride at sunset to ease his aunt’s worry about his skin getting burnt by the midday glare of the summer sun.

He pedals towards the horizon of orange and pink, the warmth of the sun spreading throughout his body as his legs pedal away. He turns to the left abruptly, and the wind whistles in his ears. The red and black flannel shirt he wears over a plain white tee is carried by the wind; from behind, it almost appears as a cape. The adrenaline-seeking spirit unleashes from within him, and without much thought, he lifts his hands off of the handlebars, raising his middle fingers up in the air. He shrieks from the rush of the moment; he indulges the wind blowing across his body, the fleeting sunlight casting its last few waves of heat and light on his face, and the wide, concrete road stretching before him.

After a while, his muscles begin to knot, and his hands return to the handlebars in a tight grip. Jungkook’s pedalling slows, turning his head from side to side to absorb all the details that make up the image of the picturesque neighbourhood. He swears it’s been featured in a movie at least once; the houses, the uniformity of each one, the postman, the elders, and everything else about it are simply too familiar to him that it’s impossible not to have seen at least parts of the town before.

He presses his foot onto the brakes once a playground comes into view. He scans the area for a place to rest and spots the perfect bench, sitting in the shade of a huge tree. It’s placed at a safe distance away from all the mischief and madness of the children running around.

He brings his bicycle along with him and parks it by the tree trunk before settling onto the bench. A layer of sweat covers his entire body, his garments sticking to his skin. He takes off his flannel and uses it to wipe the sweat pouring from his hairline down to his jaw.

He’s enjoying the last few minutes of the sun when a little girl—bobbed hair, pink shirt, and overalls —toddles her way towards him, her own smaller, pinker, more intricately designed bicycle with training wheels parked right next to his on the tree.

“What are you looking at?” He raises a brow at her.

“Can I sit here?” she peers up at him, rocking back and forth on her heels, hands entwined behind her back.

“Fuck off,” Jungkook groans, tearing his gaze away from her. “Take your stupid bike with you. Go play with your mom or something.”

The girl’s lower lip juts out in a pout, quivering. Her eyes shine with tears. She lets out a cry before she takes off, her short legs running as fast as they can in the direction opposite Jungkook.

“Oh, come on.” Jungkook rolls his eyes. The girl didn’t even bother to get her bicycle back.

Everything else slows to a still after the mishap with the little girl. Jungkook checks up on his bicycle, turning the wheels with his hands and inspecting the entire thing for rust or parts that may need replacements. He’s carefully scrutinizing the front wheel’s spokes when he spots a stranger studying him.

Jungkook has to do a double take, because at first, he can’t believe what he’s seeing; the stranger is almost a replica of Will Smith’s character in the _Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_ , but with tan, sun-kissed skin. The strands of his hair match the hues of the sun right before it dips into the ocean of the night; a serene, comforting orange. He sports an extremely loose striped shirt in yellow and pink and a pair of blue jeans. His bright orange shoelaces are contrasts to his plain black Chuck Taylors.

Jungkook squints before returning to his bicycle, shifting his focus to the back wheel. Once in a while, he sneaks a look at the stranger to check if he’s still staring at him; the sunset-haired boy hasn’t moved a single inch from where Jungkook had first seen him, and it appears like the boy doesn’t plan on budging any time soon.

“Probably wacked,” Jungkook mutters to himself, rising to his feet and propping himself up on his bike before taking off, heading back to his aunt’s house.

He pedals as fast as he can, away from the playground. He doesn’t really know how to feel about the stranger; flattered, maybe? His spine tingles at the thought. That can’t be good if it had been true. Then maybe the stranger planned on talking to him about the little girl; give him a firm scolding. Any sensible person would.

The moment he reaches the driveway, he catches the same flash of orange hair from the corner of his eye. Jungkook gets off of his bike and parks it near the garage, rubbing off the sweat that’s gathered in his palms on his soaked blue jeans. He lifts his head to check if the orange-haired boy really _is_ there.

Much to Jungkook’s dismay, the boy is standing directly across Aunt Jane’s house, eyes still fixed on Jungkook. For half a second, their eyes meet. Jungkook doesn’t know if it’s the fatigue messing with his mind or if the stranger literally just _winked_ at him.

Either way, Jungkook jogs hurriedly back inside the house, ignoring his aunt’s greeting echoing from her kitchen and heading straight to his room, heart still racing from the cycling, and perhaps because of the way the stranger had stayed on his trail.

* * *

Jungkook always finds himself running into the orange-haired stranger.

He’s tried to avoid the boy by biking around town in the mornings; just as the first few streaks of sunlight break through the cracks of the evening sky. He’s willed himself several times to rise before the sun does, in the hopes of being able to ride his bike by himself without having to worry about anyone watching him.

However, despite his best efforts—from changing routes to changing schedules to changing both at the same time—the boy is always somehow there, lingering in his periphery. Jungkook had seen him making his way up the hill he had previously pondered riding up. He had also spotted the same boy in an alley, with a group of taller, muscular men crowding around him.

Contrary to what he had wanted, Jungkook’s curiosity only grew, but he had not made any kind of effort to get to know the boy better.

He notices him again when it’s a particularly humid morning, with a sheen of sweat covering his entire body due to his insistence on wearing a leather jacket while biking despite his aunt’s warnings that it would put him at a higher risk of getting a stroke in the summer.

“I don’t want to burn my skin,” he had argued, throwing the rider jacket over his shoulders; but truth be told, the entire look was to pay homage to the iconic character of Johnny Depp in the film _Cry Baby_ , in the hopes of attracting the attention of voluptuous sixteen-year-old girls in black chokers sporting midriff, round-necked shirts that exposed their stomachs.  
  
That same morning, somehow, in the middle of repetitively cursing himself for his inclination towards the pretentious rather than the practical and _fuck, I’m gonna fucking die in this weather,_ his eyes detect a flash of bright orange hair crossing into the view.

The boy is the word _eccentric_ personified, and no, it isn’t just the hair.

He furrows his brows at the boy, studying the composition of his clothes; a loose button-up in the brightest versions of each of the primary colours splotched onto an unpleasant geometric pattern sitting comfortably on his lean build. Denim overalls conceal most of the shirt. He expects to see worn, black Chuck Taylors with bright orange shoelaces covering his feet to complete the _Fresh Prince_ rip-off attire he had first seen him in; but, he is instead genuinely surprised by the orange-haired boy’s choice to go barefoot... half-barefoot, that is; the right foot treads upon the sidewalk with nothing to protect it from the pebbles along the road, while the left is safely tucked into an all- black British Knight sneaker. Upon squinting, he finds that the boy’s nails are semi-covered in chipped, brick red nail polish, which is just _weird_ , because boys don’t paint their nails; well, they could, but back in the city, Jungkook’s gang of friends would probably have a few choice words to say about it before pulverizing their latest target.

Jungkook is still trying to figure out how the universe could come up with someone who so perfectly exemplified the definition of peculiar when he notices that the boy has caught him staring.

 _Well, shit, I can’t look away now. I’ll look like a fucking loser._ Jungkook maintains his gaze on the boy, and takes his sweet time to outline the features of his face; rich, golden skin that glistens brilliantly under the rays of sunlight playing tricks with his eyes. Chiselled features, generally; but his nose and jaw are the most notable parts of his face. Although, the deep shade of brown teeming from his wide eyes like a flowing river of coffee comes as a close second, and the endearing shade of pink on his lips is a tempting third.

The boy holds his stare with equal confusion, with a little bit of fascination smoothing out the creases in his forehead. He slowly lifts his arm and waves; at least, that’s what it looks like. His middle and ring fingers are parted in the middle, forming a ‘V’. It gives the illusion that he only has three fingers.

Jungkook decides to return his bike to his aunt’s garage and disregard the presence of the sunset- haired, tanned boy and just carry on with what he would normally do after taking a shower and eating a hearty meal for lunch.

“Made any friends?” his aunt asks as he settles into his seat at the dining table.

“Nah,” he shakes his head, the image of the sunset-haired boy's unusual salute burned in the back of his mind.

* * *

It’s been two weeks in the sunny suburb and the orange-haired boy has remained as a constant presence lingering in the corner of his eyes. He’s made the decision to not spare him a single glance, but today, he makes the mistake of turning his head ever so slightly at a convenient angle, and he sees him again; this time, in flannel pajama bottoms, oversized, white cotton sweater (a sweater. In the fucking _summer._ ), mismatched socks, and hideously green Chuck Taylors. He holds a book in his hands—Tim O’ Brien, by the looks of it—along with a notebook. On the curve of his ear rests a dull pencil.

Jungkook ponders trying to get a word out of himself and acknowledging the boy, but then the latter flashes him the widest grin he’s ever come across; the widest, and the warmest. His eyes wrinkle, and his mouth transforms into the shape of a box; a box smile. The boy box-smiles at him.

And Jungkook almost returns it; almost, because instead of box-smiling, he box-grimaces, before dashing into his aunt’s front yard and making a break for the bathroom.

A tingling sensation creeps up his spine; it’s the same kind of feeling he gets when he gets home at ungodly hours and his father is staring at him through rectangular spectacles; the same feeling of having his friends looking at him expectantly before lighting the first cigarette of the night; the same buzz that comes with commanding the stares of the student population as he walked down the familiar, locker-lined hallways, pretending not to care but severely wishing he could get rid of the jitters that came with facing all those people.

Watched. He’s being watched by the boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, yes. he finally acknowledges taehyung's existence.  
> comments & feedback are always appreciated!! hope you enjoyed this chapter. hmu on  
> tumblr @syugaflake if you want to! thanks for reading & have a nice day ahead.


	4. Screaming at the Stars

He later learns from his aunt over the dining table and some scalding green tea that the boy is named  
Kim Taehyung.  
“He’s a sweet kid,” she says, nodding while nibbling on a piece of burnt toast and fanning her tongue after taking a sip from her cup of tea. “He used to live with his grandparents and his parents.”  
“Used to?” he quirks up an eyebrow.  
“Well, his mother passed away.” A solemn look crosses her face. “She was supposed to give birth to a baby girl two years ago; never made it. Neither did the baby. His grandfather died soon after. Now, it’s just Tae, his dad, and his grandma. His family moved here a decade ago. His parents helped me out when my ex-husband and I first moved here.”  
“How old is Taehyung?”  
“You seem awfully curious about him.”  
“Well, he seems awfully curious about me,” Jungkook murmurs, more to himself; nonetheless, his aunt catches his words. He quickly follows them up with, “He keeps staring. When I get back from biking. He even followed me once.”  
His aunt throws her head back in laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. “He followed you because his house is right across mine. Don’t be so full of yourself, Kook. You city boys and your vanity.” She shakes her head in amusement. “You must get it from your father.”  
“He’s much worse,” he says absentmindedly.  
“I think so, too,” she admits, frowning at the thought of her brother. “Anyway, don’t let Taehyung’s —how should I call it?—observations get to you. It’s a small town, Kook; nothing happens. I know everyone and everyone knows me. You’re the odd one out; it’s natural for him to react that way. Don’t think too much about it.”  
“Even the elders who wave at me when I bike?”  
“Yes, even them,” she chuckles, finishing the last of her toast before rising from her seat to carry her plate to the sink. Over her shoulder, she says, “Don’t let your ego get the best of you. Say hi every now and then. Talk to Taehyung if you want; it’d be good to have a friend here your age.”  
“Yeah, okay,” he says with a tone of finality, closing the subject and finishing his dinner. “I’m going to bed.”  
  
“Didn’t think bad boys like you had a bedtime,” his aunt teases, but still bids him good night with the usual reminders to wash up and Don’t let the bedbugs bite!  
After a long hour spent serenading himself in the shower with his favourite Nirvana songs and brushing his teeth, he changes into a comfortable white tee and a pair of grey sweatpants. He then shuffles into the spare guest room his aunt had prepared for him before his arrival.  
The room is spacious enough, with minimal decorations; one bed is pushed to the corner opposite the door, near the white blinds draping over the windows. A single yellow clock hangs on the wall, and the only other things accompanying it on the white walls are old photographs of Jungkook from ten years ago. A small blue lava lamp rests atop the wooden desk by the bedside; his aunt’s placed several books and notebooks on the table as well, along with a pile of compact discs and a typewriter. He still hasn’t found the heart to touch any of it, even though there’s a note taped to the typewriter that tells him to Get comfortable! with his temporary dwelling place for the summer holidays.  
He lies down on the bed and attempts to fall asleep beneath dark blue bedsheets. What feels like hours of tossing and turning and longing for a midnight getaway translates into only five minutes past nine on the analogue clock on the wall. Upon seeing the time, he grunts and turns, lying on his stomach and burying his face in his pillow.  
Jungkook likes to believe he’s settled into the neighbourhood quite quickly. Likes to; but he knows that’s far from the truth. Especially now, when everything around him is so foreign; the scent of the room is thick with dust and a musky fragrance courtesy of the floorboards, instead of the comfort that comes with nicotine and a whiff of whiskey. The walls are too blank, too quiet; he’s used to the loud, screaming colours of his posters in contrast to his pale grey walls back in his own room. The weight of the silence is heavy on his ears, and the absence of volume is more deafening than serene; or maybe it isn’t the silence that’s making his ears ache, but the chorus of a million thoughts singing in his head all at once. They’re almost loud enough for him to think that they’re all coming from a single person, speaking, shouting in a single voice...  
...such as the baritone screams resounding from outside the house.  
He doesn’t let it get to his head at first. He doesn’t believe it to be troublesome; for all he knows, it could be some blond, blue-eyed, all-American high school quarterback getting laid for the first time who doesn’t know the meaning of self-control. Maybe it’s a bunch of middle-aged men infecting their veins with alcohol and feeding their already nurtured beer bellies. He continues to turn on his sides, lie on his stomach, back; he does this knowing that he’ll drift off soon enough and the noise will fade to white.  
But about half an hour later, it only amplifies, almost perfectly impersonating a Swing Kids song; and on a good, normal day, Jungkook would wholeheartedly be able to appreciate the poetry in throat-splitting anthems. However, good days to him are usually spent smoking at arcade parking lots; and he is most definitely not filling his lungs with nicotine amidst automobiles.  
“Goddammit,” he groans as he cards his fingers through his hair. He shuffles groggily out of the room, flexing his arms and kicking his legs out to shake off the lethargy weaving itself into his muscles; if this screaming isn’t going to stop anytime soon, he might as well be the one to do it himself.  
He finds himself at the front porch, feet planted firmly onto the wood. He blinks and rubs the blur away from his vision, and the scenery comes into clear focus; there is a body sprawled on top of the concrete road, limbs spread wide in a comfortable position. Drowsiness paints his eyes in a heavy shade of distortion, and he can’t make out the features of the person in the middle of the road.

Still, the desire to cross over to the world of slumber thrives in him and urges him to give the stranger a piece of his mind.  
“I’M WORSE AT WHAT I DO BEST,” sings the boy on the road; but with the way he’s butchering one of Nirvana’s musical masterpieces, Jungkook thinks he sounds more like a whale on its deathbed. “AND FOR THIS GIFT I FEEL BLESSED—”  
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” Jungkook screams at the top of his lungs. “I’M TRYING TO FUCKING SLEEP YOU GODDAMN PISSBABY! GO WHINE TO THE STARS SOME OTHER NIGHT!”  
The boy sits up and turns to face Jungkook. Jungkook squints hard, trying to study the boy’s physique in case he has to settle things with fists and drop kicks. The boy has long limbs, and has a rather delicate, albeit toned build; he might have to be more cautious about his speed, since he isn’t very light on his feet—  
“THE FAULT, DEAR STRANGER IN MISS JEON’S HOUSE,” the boy counters, voice layered with just as much fervour as before, “IS NOT IN OUR STARS, BUT IN OURSELVES, THAT WE ARE HOWLING AT EACH OTHER IN THIS PEACEFUL NEIGHBOURHOOD.”  
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ON?!” Jungkook’s frustration is beginning to hammer in his ribcage, pulsing in his temples. He’s supposed to be relaxing in bed, tuning into the serenity of the small neighbourhood and the absence of the orchestra of car horns and the hum of a hundred radio stations; not dealing with some crazed neighbour who can’t seem to process the concept of do not disturb.  
“IT’S SHAKESPEARE, STRANGER IN MISS JEON’S HOUSE.” The boy seems to be on the verge of bursting out laughing, shoulders shaking mildly and hands on his belly. “EVEN DRUGS CAN’T MAKE ME A POETIC GENIUS.”  
“GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP!” Jungkook’s body is beginning to sway from side to side and he’s not so sure he can take this boy in a brawl, but he still manages to lift his fists to his face. “IF YOU DON’T SHUT THE FUCK UP, I’LL MAKE YOU!”  
“WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME?”  
“BECAUSE I CAN’T SLEEP!”  
“WHY CAN’T YOU SLEEP?”  
“BECAUSE YOU WON’T SHUT UP!”  
“YOU BLOODY HYPOCRITE,” screams back the boy before throwing his head back and melting into a fit of laughter.  
This fucking scrub. Jungkook rolls his sweater sleeves to his elbow and cracks his knuckles as he marches towards the road. The boy on the road’s mirth plays out as a soundtrack for the evening, echoing across the otherwise empty stretch of concrete and bungalows.  
Jungkook stops in his steps an arm’s length away from the boy. The latter’s laughter is a gradient sound, fading into a chuckle and eventual silence. The ghost of it haunts Jungkook in the form of a familiar box-smile when he finally takes a closer look at the boy’s face.  
Kim Taehyung. Orange-haired boy with the funny fashion.

“ARE WE STILL YELLING?” Taehyung asks, the tone of his question suggesting that he’s up for the debate. “ARE YOU GOING TO BEAT ME UP, STRANGER IN MISS JEON’S HOUSE? YOU MIGHT AS WELL END IT BEFORE—”  
Jungkook strides closer to Taehyung and clasps a hand over his mouth, while the other grabs him by the neckline of his sweater. Panic rings in his system; Jungkook didn’t possess any second thoughts about beating Taehyung to a pulp (serves him right with his orange hair) before, but the thought of dirtying the clean slate he’d been given at the expense of his aunt’s reputation in the town stops him from connecting his knuckles to Taehyung’s voice.  
“Don’t,” Jungkook whispers, hating to admit that he’s begging. He lowers his hand from Taehyung’s mouth.  
“So now you stop yelling,” Taehyung says, rolling his eyes. “Really, stranger, you could have come up here earlier and just told me to stop. I would have. And hey, weren’t you the dude who made the little girl cry at the playground—”  
“Fucking—” Jungkook releases Taehyung’s shirt from his fist, resting his hands on his hips while gazing down at the latter’s body still nonchalantly lying on the ground. “Aren’t you worried you’ll get run over?”  
Taehyung shrugs. “Let the Lord take me any time He pleases.”  
“Chinny,” Jungkook scoffs, proceeding to scratch his chin, where hints of a beard begin to grow in millimetre-long spikes of hair.  
Taehyung squints at him. “You’re not Christian?”  
“Why the fuck would I be?”  
“Doesn’t seem like it.” Taehyung shakes his head. “You kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?”  
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”  
“You look like you have one.”  
“Are you telling me you think I’m good-looking?” Jungkook raises his eyebrows at Taehyung. He lowers his voice a few decibels before murmuring, “What are you? Queer?”  
“By the lexical definition, indeed I am,” Taehyung affirms, the direction of his eyes shifting from Jungkook to the dark, denim blue sky adorned with intricate stitches of constellations, “and objectively speaking, you’re quite beautiful.”  
“Faggot.” “Thanks.” “What?”  
“Come lay with me for a sec, will you?” Taehyung pats the vacant space of gravel next to him with one hand. He props himself up on his elbows and stares straight into Jungkook’s eyes, softening as they wander across the map of his anatomy.  
Jungkook takes half a step back. “Why should I?”  
“Because I’m a faggot,” Taehyung retorts, tilting his head to the side, “and I’m madly, hopelessly,

irrevocably in love with the idiot who wore a leather jacket in this kind of heat, and I would like to make him fall in love with me.”  
Jungkook doesn’t know if he should cringe at Taehyung’s words or the memory of the burn of his leather rider jacket against his skin, recalling the searing sting of the friction of the material against his pores.  
Dubiously, he sits down next to Taehyung. Perhaps the time has finally decided to dictate the direction of his train of thought, because if this were a normal afternoon, he’d be running his bicycle over Taehyung for getting on his nerves and humiliating him. But the night gives him a blank canvas, and he decides to paint a kinder portrait of himself before the spectator.  
“So, apart from being the spawn of the devil who scares children away, who are you, stranger?” Taehyung asks, nudging him lightly by his elbow. “Who are you? Who are you to Miss Jeon?”  
“Miss Jeon is my aunt,” Jungkook replies, staring straight ahead of him. “She lets me call her Jane. I’m here for the summer break. Staying away from the city for now.”  
“Ooh, a city boy,” Taehyung sits up, drawing his knees to his chest and propping his arms up on his legs. “What’s a guy like you doing in this boring old town? Too loud in the city? Looking for a Sandy Olsson to tame your bad boy Greaser heart?”  
“Looking for a what?” Jungkook turns to face Taehyung, who’s leaning uncomfortably close towards him. The humidity of air at dusk combined with the new yet oddly soothing warmth radiating from Taehyung’s body, ironically enough, sends chills throughout his body. He’s wacked. Fucking wacked.  
“Ever watched a musical called Grease? No?” Taehyung raises his brows at him. Jungkook shakes his head, and Taehyung’s jaw drops to the ground, horror distorting his perfectly symmetrical face into bizarre proportions. “How can you possibly not know about the most memorable legacy of Johnny Travolta when you’re the perfect personification of it?”  
Despite trying his hardest, Jungkook still doesn’t understand half of the words coming out of Taehyung’s mouth, mostly because the boy’s particularly fond of using words beyond Jungkook’s limited vocabulary.  
“I’m going to have to show you at least the movie one of these days,” Taehyung says, feigning exasperation. “Scrub.”  
Did he just call me a scrub? Him? Me? What the fuck? Jungkook never has been a firm believer in any faith designed beforehand by the ancestors of humanity, but at that moment, he starts reconsidering his opinions of the concept of karma; because he’s been thrust into the heart of the most unfortunate circumstances his teenage mind’s imagination can fathom. And he’s starting to wonder if it’s just all by pure coincidence that he’s been placed in this situation recently after he first came to the town.  
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but to answer your question, I’m not here because of any of the things you mentioned,” Jungkook answers.  
“Then why are you here?” Taehyung’s tone has been stripped of all judgment and sarcasm from before, and all that remains to fill the spaces between his words are curiosity.  
Jungkook searches for the right words in his mind. He actually hasn’t been able to figure out the exact reason his parents sent him away from their household; if it was about him, for him, for them,

for his aunt.  
“I... was sent away,” he tells Taehyung, but also to himself; to come to terms with it. “I don’t know if it’s because my parents are sick of me, or because they actually think this is the ‘best’ for me. But they got me a ticket to come here and live with my aunt for the summer.”  
Taehyung nods once, twice. “So you’re in exile or something?” “I guess.”  
Taehyung chuckles, plating his hands on the ground and leaning backwards. “And this town is your prison?”  
“They think the city’s bad for me,” Jungkook mutters, mind pulsing with images of all the flashy arcades and midnight getaways; the blaring red and blue of a police car’s light hot on his trail, the clattering of empty spray paint cans and the hot, white, blinding throb of a black eye and a busted rib. “They’re wrong, though.”  
“How so, city boy?”  
“It’s the other way around.” Jungkook picks at the loose threads on his sweater sleeves, busying himself with the flimsy fabric when he feels Taehyung’s gaze burning holes into the back of his head. “I’m bad for the city. The cops are probably gonna have a great time while I’m not around.”  
“You like Green Day?” Taehyung asks out of the blue. “You sound like you do.”  
Jungkook wrinkles his forehead in thought. “How’d you know?”  
“I have magic powers.” Taehyung wiggles his brows at him.  
It takes Jungkook five seconds before he permits himself to laugh at Taehyung. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”  
“It’s because we’re soulmates,” Taehyung jokes, humouring himself and Jungkook until they run out of reasons to laugh; until it just makes sense to do so. It feels sensible to do so; to laugh until their jaws and cheeks hurt from the coiling tension, until their bellies ache from the comedy of quiet, until tears are pouring out of their eyes and they’re smiling the widest possible grins their muscles allow.  
Jungkook turns to face Taehyung after the high subsides. Taehyung stands out, he’s realized, despite the plainness of his getup; a simple plain white tee framing his lean build and sweatpants to highlight the length of his legs. Just as during their previous encounters as strangers (well, technically they still kind of are, but Jungkook doesn’t really feel so), Taehyung had made the choice to go barefoot, not even a sock covering one of his feet.  
Still, there’s something about his aura that commands attention; not the desperate kind, not really. He’s the type that deserves the attention, with the orange hair turning into a borderline red shade underneath the night sky’s blackish-blue filter, and the calculating, albeit neutral chestnut eyes that are always looking for something to study. Not to judge; judgment would involve conclusions. To study only involves observations, inferences, questions.  
And he’s found that Taehyung’s been studying him all this time; no, since that afternoon at the playground. Since the afternoon of winks and pulsing nerves and spokes.  
“Why were you screaming a while ago?” Jungkook wonders out loud. “Before I came out of my aunt’s house. You were singing Nirvana, right?”

Taehyung shrugs. “Bored.” “That’s it?”  
“No, it was actually a part of my ploy to lure you out of your house and into my trap,” Taehyung follows up, any trace of hilarity absent from his usually jovial face.  
Jungkook creases his brows. “Into your trap...?”  
“Of friendship!” The box grin returns to his face in all its geometrical glory, with the precisely aligned white teeth and gums. “I got you there for a second.”  
“No, you didn’t,” Jungkook counters, laughing at the absurdity of it all; how quickly strangers evolve into friends, how threats turn into inside jokes, how distances can close.  
Taehyung yawns. “I should go to bed.”  
“Didn’t think of that a few hours ago?” Jungkook teases, earning a smack across his bicep. “Thought so.”  
“Don’t get cocky, city boy,” Taehyung warns. “Just because you’re an Adonis from a faraway concrete jungle doesn’t mean I’m going to be all over you. I’m above that.”  
“Didn’t you say you were in love with me?”  
“I said not to get cocky, Greaser scum!” Taehyung theatrically turns away and crosses his arms over his chest. “Can’t you follow rules just once? See, this is why your parents sent you away, you scrub.”  
Jungkook raises his arms in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m done for the night.” He rises to his feet and smooths the creases on his clothes. He offers his hand for Taehyung to take to get up, but Taehyung remains still as a stone on the road.  
“I can get up by myself,” Taehyung claims as he proceeds to rise from the ground, only for his hand to slip, resulting in a rather clumsy free fall towards the concrete and landing on his bottom. He tilts his head back to look at Jungkook. “Actually, I can’t.”  
Jungkook sighs before pulling Taehyung up to his feet. Taehyung’s fingertips graze against the back of his hand in the process, and Jungkook feels callouses treading upon his veins. “I still don’t get why you're like this.”  
“I don’t get myself, either,” Taehyung replies, withdrawing his hand from Jungkook’s grip abruptly. “I’ll figure it out or something.”  
“Maybe that’s why you kept yelling at the sky.”  
“Maybe, city boy. Maybe.”  
“I have a name,” Jungkook says. “Jungkook.”  
“Fine,” Taehyung huffs. “Pleased to have talked to you, City Jungkook. Call me Tae.” He poses just as he did before; the three-finger salute he had given Jungkook. “Live long and prosper, scrub.”  
“You’re the scrub,” Jungkook argues, but Taehyung’s already fully turned on his heels and is making his way back up the steps of his house’s front porch. “Hey, wait!”

Taehyung cranes his neck to find Jungkook and locks his eyes with his. “Are you going to confess your undying love for me now?”  
“Bullshit,” Jungkook scoffs. A corner of his mouth curls upward. “You’re not that bad, Tae. Even though you creep me out. You’re alright.”  
Jungkook’s words draw a curved line along Taehyung’s lips. “You’re not that bad either, City Jungkook. I mean, you act like it, but I don’t think you really are.”  
“You don’t know me that well yet, though.” Jungkook’s brows knot at the centre. “How are you sure about that?”  
Taehyung nods carefully. Even though the distance between where Jungkook stands and Taehyung’s front porch is great, the way Taehyung’s eyes are alight with thought are bright enough for Jungkook to see them as clear as the stars burn above them.  
“I’ve found that people can become someone entirely different depending on the time of day, where they are, who they’re with” Taehyung responds after a few moments of silence. “And from experience, people are closest to who they are when it’s night. Right before they sleep.”  
“Huh.” Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek, attempting to stomach all of the thoughts Taehyung continues to unravel before him. “And who do you think I am?”  
Taehyung flashes what seems like a smirk; Jungkook finds it difficult to tell since the sky’s grown a shade darker. “I’m not entirely sure, but you’re far from the person you see yourself as. Lighten up, scrub. G’night.” He winks before opening the door to his house and shutting himself inside, leaving Jungkook by himself, standing along the concrete road, underneath the stars sitting on their thrones in the twilight sky.  
“Good night to you too,” Jungkook whispers, words evaporating into the air surrounding him, eyes still fixated on the white door of Taehyung’s family’s house. Something in him causes his feet to take a step. Two steps. Three steps, until his bare feet are firmly rooted to the pavement leading to Taehyung’s door.  
What am I doing? He ruffles his hair and turns, returning to his aunt’s house as quietly as he can manage, tiptoeing back into his room where everything remains the way it had been the minute he slipped away.  
His back hits the mattress; the cushion dips and embraces the shape of his body as he stares up at the ceiling, hands tangled behind his head while he recounts the earlier exchange of thoughts with Taehyung.  
He still hasn’t fully wrapped his head around the conversation that had transpired; he hasn’t even fully convinced himself that Taehyung is an actual, real person, and not just a figment of his sleepless imagination.  
It had been so easy to talk to Taehyung; Jungkook had taught himself over the years not to let his words slip from his mouth so recklessly. There are a series of filters he’s established after making the mistake of speaking his mind; he’s trained himself to say not what’s on his mind, but what’s expected of him. It’s what he does around his friends, around his parents; which is why it boggles his mind that a boy he’s known for barely a month has already managed to coax out the words Jungkook never knew lived inside of him; words he thought he didn’t have until a sunset-haired boy proved otherwise.

“...people can become someone entirely different depending on the time of day,” Taehyung had claimed. And maybe that’s true; because Jungkook knows he certainly wouldn’t spare Taehyung a glance if he had met him in the city at some record store in the afternoon.  
He hasn’t been himself with Taehyung; at least, that’s not the way he’d act around anyone else. Taehyung was a spectacle, with flowers blooming and thriving in the gardens his words planted; and Jungkook had found himself growing along with them, even though he’d always been told he’d be the type to pick flowers, not plant them.  
Jungkook drifts off into the empty space of slumber minutes later, dreaming of sunsets and leather jackets and box-smiles; of maybe’s and broken beer bottles; of bikes and sunlight; of Taehyung, back flat against the ground, singing along to the opening theme of Friends.  
Jungkook’s surprised to find that in his dreams, he’s singing along with him.


End file.
